by Jay Lake
Imago wondered what would happen when the blooms ran out.
Astaro and a bailiff named Orrey were in close conference over a map of the City Imperishable. Imago stepped close.
" . . . three by the Limerock Palace," Orrey said. "And three more around New Hill."
"It is to being too worrisome."
"How many total?" Imago asked.
"Lord Mayor," Orrey replied with a sharp nod. "We don't really know. The swarms are smaller than what was in Terminus Plaza. Lindens and poplars and chestnuts are collapsing. They're taking horses, dogs, people—anything outside without a poppy that doesn't get away fast enough."
"Not to be coming into buildings yet," added Astaro.
"That won't last." Imago looked at the marks on the map, trying to spot a pattern. Could they predict the next assaults? "Doors are wood, and people leave windows open. Buildings will be easy for them."
"What are they to be doing?"
"My fear is that there's a great nest growing somewhere within the City."
"More of them?" Orrey seemed incredulous.
An idea occurred to Imago. "I need Saltfingers," the Lord Mayor said.
Waiting for the old dunny diver in Marelle's office, Imago considered the problem of the false Lord Mayor Fidelo. He decided he simply didn't care. If the little buggerer could do more than Imago to repair the life of the City, perhaps he deserved to be Lord Mayor.
Saltfingers appeared far sooner than Imago had expected. "Your worship," the old dwarf said, climbing into a wingback chair to huddle like a dog. He wasn't wearing a poppy.
"How is it beneath the stones?"
"Busy." The dwarf shuddered. "There's things down there we ain't seen in lifetimes. I got three dunny divers swear they crossed from Sudgate Number Three to Cork Street Bypass without ever going under the Little Bull or meeting the Old Twins. Which is as likely as my finger passing from one ear to the other from the inside, if you takes my meaning, sir. Not to say them wasps are getting in as well."
"Blow me for a dog," muttered Imago. "I hoped the sewers would shelter our people if things grew worse."
"'S possible," Saltfingers said cautiously. "We can stop a few tunnels. But it would not last, your worship. No food, no clean water. Also, a lot of people go crackers in darkness. If you needed an hour or even a day, I could find the way. Not more."
"There's one other thing." Some words were difficult to say.
"Sir?"
"I may have to seek the Old Gods again."
Saltfingers gave Imago a long look. "Yes?"
The words came out in a rush. "Would you take me to the tombs if needed?"
"And why would your worship want to go down there?" Saltfingers asked softly. "What with all the trouble you personally gone to so's they could sleep once more in their comfy stone beds."
"Because I won't let these wasps take my city down to the stones. We deserve more than bloody bones and sawdust."
"Ah." Saltfingers sat in silence a moment. "Just remember this. The present is only a moment long. Then you've got a new moment. History is forever. So think careful on what you want to live with, your worship."
"Thank you," Imago said gravely. That was tripe worthy of a priest, and quite surprising coming from Saltfingers. All men could be prophets in times of need.
Bijaz
It was dark outside when he awoke.
Again?
The furnace by his bed had died down to coals. Bijaz squinted. It was a Little Moloch. A fine make. He'd owned one himself.
Clarity of thought was a novelty, in distinct contrast to the painful workings of his body. He couldn't move his shoulders, though his wrists flexed. His right hand was bandaged. The rest of him was not so much paralyzed as unstrung.
He'd felt better. But he was still breathing.
Bijaz decided to try out his voice. "Where the hells am I?"
A woman slipped through a tent flap and secured it tight behind her. She was young, with close-cropped pale hair, wearing a dark dress. A Tribade sister, but comfortably round where they tended to resemble old shoe leather. Oddly, she wore a pale-waxy poppy tucked into her collar.
"You are atop the Rugmaker's Cupola," she said. "In a tent where you have been warmed since this morning. You were too injured to be moved."
The memory of the teratornis exploded into Bijaz's head. A spinning vertigo assaulted him. He gripped his cot for fear of falling out. "The world was too far beneath my feet."
"Birds will do that to you." She inspected him critically. "You're lucid, but I'd guess you couldn't stand if your life depended on it. Still, I think Sister Medica plans to move you downstairs tonight. Open air isn't safe."
"The Eater of Forests is here."
"You mean the wasps?" Her eyes narrowed. Probably wondering if he was crazed.
"Yes, the wasps. Both little and big."
"You are correct," she said shortly.
"I need to speak to the Lord Mayor as soon as possible," Bijaz said urgently. "Along with Enero and Kalliope."
"I'll see." She slipped back out the flap.
A few minutes later the sister returned with the Tribade doctor, accompanied by half a dozen men. They were an oddly mixed lot—a bailiff, two Winter Boys, and three civilians. Each wore a pale silk flower as well as a wilted poppy.
"The stairs are more in the nature of a ladder," the doctor said, staring at Bijaz. "We'll have to tip the cot too far."
"I'll use my feet," he growled.
"Go ahead." The doctor rested her fingers on her chin. "I'm ready to see this miracle."
He'd done miracles before. The first problem was getting the blankets off him. After pushing ineffectually for several minutes, Bijaz gave up. "I'm sorry."
"So now you'll believe me?" The doctor's sarcasm could have cut bread.
"Yes," he said. "I will. Just bring me to Imago. Or Enero."
That produced a ripple of nervousness among her helpers.
What are they hiding?
The doctor had the men strap him to the cot with cargo slings over folded pads of silk and cotton. Then they picked his bed up and carried him quickly out of the tent. The night air was cool, but he could hear distant screaming and a high pitched buzz.
"They're here," Bijaz whispered, sliding into vivid recollection of the wasps in the mine shaft.
The men bearing him bunched up at the trap door leading below. "Be quick about it," the doctor hissed.
Two went down the ladder, while the other four tipped him into the hole headfirst. The doctor began to protest, but it was too late.
He felt the bedclothes slide beneath him as the straps snagged. Some slipped, others held. The ceiling of the tower spun by him to the sound of cursing. Then he was flat again.
"Here," the doctor said. They hustled him into a room. He wasn't sure whose office this had been, but most of the furniture had been smashed, then swept into the corner at the wide end of the room, along the outside wall. A canopied bed sat in the center of the space, another Little Moloch heater beside it.
"I am not lying on pink silk beneath a roof of lace."
"You're free to get up and leave at any time." The doctor's tone was nasty. Her helpers unstrapped Bijaz and moved him into the bed. They filed out, some grinning.
"I believe you can expect visitors soon," she told him. "Sister Nurse will be with you to watch for trouble." She reconsidered her words. "My sort of trouble, I mean. I'd tell you not to strain yourself, but there's no point in me wasting my breath."
Imago bustled in, accompanied by Marelle and a freerider Bijaz vaguely recognized. The freerider also wore the silk flower.
"Hello," Bijaz said simply, wondering where the rest of them were.
Imago grinned. "You look silly. The sweet prince cocooned in silk beyond his mortal estate, but I misremember the lines."
"'Sweet prince," Marelle recited, "'sleep your last
"'Cocooned in silk and death's dark mask
"'To slip forth from this mortal fate
"'And find your soul's last estate.'"
Bijaz was baffled. "What are you talking about?"
Marelle shook her head. "Where is your education? Mandorello gives those lines, near the end of Porcini, Prince of Bas Luccia. One of the greatest plays by Guillaume of Rock."
"There was little theatre in my growing box," Bijaz said darkly. "You both make me feel the fool." He added, "It is good to be home."
Imago took his hand. "It is good to have you home, old friend." He nodded to Marelle. "She is my chamberlain now. Onesiphorous lies in his grave to the south. Astaro here speaks for the Winter Boys and the Lord Mayor's Own."
"Where is Enero?" Bijaz asked. "And Kalliope?"
Astaro looked away, while Marelle's smile vanished. Bijaz felt his heart plummet.
Imago took that question almost straight on. "Kalliope is in the south with Jason, hoping to salvage something from the fall of Port Defiance. There's news just today of that. Enero was killed at Wedgeburr's orders. Along with many others. These have not been good times."
Bijaz let his breath out in a slow, painful gasp. "The Eater of Forests is here, too, I see."
"Wasps?"
"Yes. Believe me, there were far worse things under the ice up there. Pray they never find their way down the mountains." Though he wasn't so sure about Iistaa. "We were pursued by a demonic fetch before the Alates caused us to be taken away."
Imago sat on the edge of his bed. Marelle stood close. The Lord Mayor's arm slipped around her waist, which told Bijaz much. "We need to know," Imago said, "what became of you."
"Something great and terrible in the history of cities is afoot," Marelle added. "We think this might be what Terminus sought to avoid. What did the Northern Expedition find?"
"And DeNardo," the freerider added. "What of him?"
Bijaz began to talk, telling the story from the beginning so he didn't lose his thread. He recounted the manipulative perfidy of Ashkoliiz, the strange behavior of the Northmen and the bear, the death of the Slackwater Princess, and on through the whole sorry business.
Onesiphorous
Surely the pilot of Princeps Olivo would have preferred a less rapid pace, but Silver had caught Onesiphorous' urgency. His erstwhile rescuer clearly stood in the highest councils of Bas Gronegrim and its navy.
The sailors kept a respectful distance, while allowing him the freedom of the main deck. The rest of the City dwarfs huddled under a canopy with a water butt and a beer barrel, not permitted to move about.
Onesiphorous found himself time and again at the stern rail, watching the sloop wallow along behind. Something was very wrong. The mast and bowsprit had both fallen away. The deck bulged. Groaning echoed across the water.
He wondered what transformations Jason endured now. Whatever passed for that man's soul must be battered beyond all measure.
Though Onesiphorous had come to find respect and affection for the Angoumois and their shadows, he was glad to be returning home. If only Kalliope had made the journey as well. The likelihood of her surviving the sinking of Xanthippe D. seemed less and less with each passing hour.
That afternoon Silver found him staring southward. She handed him a waxed paper packet. A rolled-up flatbread was tucked within. "Eat, Oarsman."
He tugged at it. Salt fish and pickled cabbage lurked inside the bread. Nothing that appealed. "We pay too high a price for our games."
She laughed. "Everybody got games. Fisherman in his hut play stakes against tide and current. Merchant in his shop set himself against bank and supplier and customer. King in his palace gamble empire against glory. You play game, pay best price you can."
"I fear Kalliope is dead," he said slowly. "Jason is become something monstrous. My people tear themselves to pieces, arguing whether raising another generation of dwarf children is a sacred duty or an abomination. I don't have any idea what's become of the City Imperishable. It must still be standing or we'd have seen a flood of refugees come south."
"Blockade gone," she said softly. "You going home. I soon see Enero. Everybody pay price, move on. Some move along soul's path, others keep walking through world."
"You must have strange priests in Bas Gronegrim."
"My house . . . " Her voice trailed off. "My house we ask our mothers' help. Old mother, older mother, oldest mother. We got bones go back a thousand years. First mother my family come from sea, daughter of Sea King. Legend . . . eh . . . truth . . . eh." She caught his eye with her gaze. "We got silver box. Thousand-year-old-fish fin inside. All crinkle paper like wasp wing. Is real? I got no way to know. Is my first mother? Of course. I believe first mother, she first mother. She teach me, she pay price to come from sea, she move on. Me in world is just her moving on another . . . eh . . . generation?"
"Generation," said Onesiphorous. "I can't help but take it more personally."
"Is personal. Only one you, only one lifetime." She squeezed his free hand. "Eat now."
He began chewing at the rolled bread as she walked away. Princeps Olivo followed the River Saltus through open country now, Jason's sloop trailing on its tow lines. Low hills rolled from on both banks. Odd patches of growth stood out at the water's edge. Onesiphorous wondered what he saw, until he realized they had been trees.
A force substantial enough to gnaw down full-grown cypress and willows had passed here recently. That gave him pause. Then someone began shouting excitedly up on the bridge deck. A cannon boomed.
Something huge and improbable curved past the stern rail with a buzzing that set his teeth to aching.
A wasp, he realized. Though it was so big . . .
His imagination failed.
Gunfire rattled from the fore as the City dwarfs began screaming. Onesiphorous heard a splash. Moments later the corpse of the wasp bumped past the stern of Princeps Olivo, struck the bow of Jason's sloop, and spun away on the current. Its translucent wings were spread wide as a grain barge. Pale jelly leaked from ruptures in the abdomen.
His gut flopped, threatening to follow the wasp into the River Saltus. What had happened to the City Imperishable?
Princeps Olivo gave three short, sharp whistle blasts as she increased her speed yet again. He was not the only one with that question in mind.
Somewhat to Onesiphorous' surprise, they steamed into the night. Even the fast packets usually anchored rather than push on through darkness. The moon was the barest sliver past new, and the stars were bright, but the River Saltus ran black and slick.
Onesiphorous was no expert at river navigation, but he'd spent enough time drinking with clerks to hear numerous tales of how disaster could befall an honest man who was only shaving a few hours for the sake of the delivery bonuses in his contracts.
The River Saltus craved change, it seemed. The channel rarely shifted, but bars constantly built up or washed away. Escaped logs formed snags. Debris entered the river from tributaries.
He wondered about hazards, still alone at the stern rail watching Jason's sloop ride ever lower in the water. The whistle gave a long shriek. Someone bellowed in a Sunward tongue, then in Civitas, "Brace for impact."
Onesiphorous sat down and clung to a stanchion.
A loud bang echoed, which he felt through the deck as much as he heard it. Princeps Olivo shuddered. The boilers grumbled loudly, accompanied by a rising screech of steam.
A series of shouted orders arose from further forward, followed by a fusillade of gunfire. The deck rolled as cannons roared.
Moments later a burning raft of debris passed him by. The sound of the boilers stepped down and the ship resumed its course with a short blast of the whistle.
Silver came to him again a few minutes later. "You still not hungry, eh?"
"No." He hadn't bothered to stand up.
"I find you bunk somewhere, you want."
"No." Sleep was only slightly less interesting than food. The sloop trailing them wallowed ever lower. "It's sinking," he said.
"We know. We go fast, get there before all done. No one will
board to repair. Ghost boat now, after he kill so many in battle."
"I don't think he's dead yet." Upon reflection, Onesiphorous realized that was a profoundly stupid thing to say about Jason. "Again, I mean."
